Chapter 9: I'm Still Remembering the Day I Gave My Life Away
The rain is hammering at the thin glass of your windows, the distant drumming of thunder announces the storm has finally reached the shores, and you're surprised that you had enough energy left to carry the brunette up to the barracks and inside your house before the downfall had begun. As you pad out of your bedroom drying your damp hair from the shower you've just taken, you remember to check on the handcuffed brunette you've left on the sofa.
She's exactly how you left her. The sedative still hasn't worn off yet, but you're sure she's going to awake any moment. You're preparing for it. You know she'll be more than furious with you though, because she isn't where you told her she would be. Sawyer isn't here, neither is Jack and once she realises this she'll want your blood. You look down at her wrists that are still bound by the rings of loose metal. They won't save you from her wound up wrath. You swallow against the realisation, until your fingertips trace over the gun that you've hastily tucked into the hem of your clean jeans. You swore you wouldn't use it, you hope she's sensible enough not to give you reason to use it, but you have to remember the line. You can't cross that line, because you know what will happen if you do. You've seen it happen before, and no matter how strong you pretend to be on the outside, you can't deny the grotesque fear that grinds at your insides.
A sharp intake of breath disrupts you from your meddling thoughts and you automatically look across at her as she jumps up suddenly from her sleep. You can see the remnants of the sedative still working against her heavy eyelids, the confusion isn't helping her state much, because her breathing is rapid and for a moment she even looks like she's about to be sick. Then she hears the familiar cling of metal around her wrists, probably feels the coldness around her hands, before her confusion fades to frustration when she finally sets her eyes on the offending handcuffs.
You steady yourself calmly, regaining your usually frosted composure. You narrow your lips and fill the backs of your eyes with an unreadable numbness, just in time for her to glare up at you with an expression that is a mixture of disgusted bitterness and bubbling rage. She starts to stand to her feet, but the lasting effects of the sedative are still faintly gripping her body, making her sway and almost loosing her balance. You're about to take a step forward, until those eyes meet yours again, and the pure hatred you see in them makes you think again about where you want to stand.
"Where –" she tries to speak but she stops herself when she hears how rough her voice sounds. Somehow you already know what her question will be. Of course you do, she wants to know where Sawyer is, or where Jack is, or where she is. You take a slow subtle breath in through your nose, inwardly sighing it back out at the predictability of the brunette. Then she'll want to know why she's here and not in her cage. It's frustrating you to know that this is how it is playing out, but really, did you see it going any other way?
"Sit down," you command softly, gesturing lightly with your head at the sofa behind her. She frowns sharply at you, while the rage simmers dangerously close to boiling point in her eyes. She's refusing to. She takes a step forward towards you and you straighten your back nervously a little more than it already is. "Sit down, Kate," you say it again, this time adding her name, as if that would make a difference. She's still shuffling forward and even though you don't show it, you panic, reaching behind you for the fail safe, the gun.
She visibly stiffens at the sight of the black pistol being pointed at her face. It works, not that you ever doubted it would, but it's still strange to see the flicker of fear between her brown orbs. You're slightly disappointed that you've had to reveal the weapon at all, why did she have to make things so hard on herself? You're fighting with the urge to admit that you're being unreasonable. Would it really be so different if it were the other way around? You suppose not. You just hate being the one on this side of the fence, but one more glance at those handcuffs convinces you to stay where you are. It doesn't look too rosy on her side either.
"Would you please sit down?" you plead finally, loosing at little of your resilience that you had a moment ago, and she notices it. She retracts her steps and falls back against the cushions of the sofa, bouncing slightly as she settles herself onto the edge. "Where am I?" she asks the question that you've been waiting to come, "are we home?" You stall at the mention of home, you weren't expecting that. You tighten your lips together at the cruel disappointment of having to tell her the truth about home. "Ben's version of it," you mumble back to her, lowering the gun from her direction.
Her eyes linger on the black pistol for a few moments, before she allows herself to fully take in the rest of your living room, and the fake normality that it holds inside every little ornament. "So we're on the island still?" she manages to whisper in her hoarse voice, "I mean you people have houses, actual houses?" You give a little sigh, wanting to tell her that it isn't as great as she might seem to think. She's laughing in amazement now, her eyes greedily drinking in every detail. "You have a TV?" she raises her eyebrows in wonderment. "Don't get too comfortable," you remind her harshly. She isn't supposed to like it here. She's supposed to want to leave the island, like you want to leave the island.
She looks back at you with a sudden frown edged deeply across her forehead, her anger for her current situation has returned, and the bewildered amazement has now vanished completely. "Comfortable?" she retorts back, repeating your own word for extra emphasis, "how can I possibly get comfortable here?" She huffs out some extra air and throws herself back against the back of the sofa, before she starts with her questions again. "What is this?" she snaps, "first it's that weird cell, then the cages, now a house, what next, a hotel suite?"
You twitch your head at the foreign sound of her sarcasm, and you figure that she's spent far too much time with Ford to be able to pick up lines like that. You don't say anything. Nothing you can say will ease her rage about what has happened to her. "So what, is this your house?" she raises her eyes expectantly when she quickly realises you won't say anything. "It's where I live, yes," you answer carefully. It's the truth in your eyes, you only live here, it's not necessarily your house, because you know your real house is back home in Miami. "And why am I here?" she sighs dejectedly. You're surprised that she's given in so quickly. The fire that had swept up around the back of her eyes is now just a low light that scowls at you from afar. It's nothing like its intimidating heat that had just moments ago been burning your skin, and melting your rigidness.
"I believe you asked for a shower," you answer back plainly. You watch as she sits up instantly, her face wild with a hungry wonderment at your inviting words. "Bathroom's down the hallway to the left," you motion towards the narrow hallway behind you, "there's plenty of hot water and I've left you some fluffy towels." She's gawping at you with her mouth slightly agape. The startled confusion is something of a picture that paints itself across her delicate features, and you decide that it's much nicer to stare at than the image of a shattered, angry woman that you've witnessed so many times in the past couple of days.
"You serious?" she nods her head, as she screws up her face in disbelief, "you brought me all the way here to give me a shower?" Why can't she simply be thankful for the things that you're doing for her? She's starting to irritate you now with her constant questioning of things, you think silently to yourself that she should be grateful that you've gone to so much trouble just for her. "No Kate," your voice is hard, stressing her name slowly and sharply, "I brought you out here to keep you out of the way." Her frown deepens and carves unruly lines across her skin of her forehead. You know what's coming, another question. "Keep me out of the way of what?" she doesn't disappoint you, and there's a gentle curve that touches the left side of your mouth a little. "Ben," you answer simply.
Her clear lack of understanding isn't foreign to you. She hasn't been around long enough for her to understand Ben at all. She's seen many sides of Ben, of course, you know from the ugly red colouring on her wrists and upper arms that she's seen at least one side of him, but she doesn't understand what he can truly be like, how honestly brutal and evil he can really be. No one understands that better that you and you assume no one ever will. "He doesn't like your attitude," you try to clarify for her in terms she will understand. She expels a noisy gasp from her lips, as she looks away from you to her right side, towards the door you notice. "That's what you get for locking me in a cage and making me break rocks all day," she spits out through her gritted teeth.
You want to explain to her that it was all Ben's doing, you desperately want to cease you're opportunity to tell her everything, but you know it's too soon. You need to gain her confidence, you need her to trust you so that she doesn't then go and repeat everything to Ben. "Do you want that shower or not?" you force back at her, pretending to ignore her jibe. She looks back at you, and you can see the returning flames dance wildly across her eyes. "Well there isn't much point if I've still got these on," she answers back, causing you to squint your eyes at her sarcastic tone. She's definitely spent far too much time with Ford.
Taking a cautious step towards the sofa, you take the keys out from your pocket of your new trousers, all the while your watching her suspiciously. You're well aware that she could jump at you at anytime, knock you unconscious and make an escape route for the door. The weighty heaviness in your other hand reminds you though of who has the most control over this situation. You hold on tightly to its cold embrace, knowing that this is the only thing that will possibly keep you alive.
"Are you going to behave?" you ask her seriously, but not expecting a true answer from her. She laughs at you as you stand in front of her. She holds out her hands in readiness for the triumphant cling of the keys inside the lock that chimes in time with the bells of her freedom. "Please," she laughs again in a low, almost mocking voice, "if I'd have wanted to misbehave, I wouldn't have asked you for the keys." Now it's time for you to frown deeply at her. She licks at her bottom lip sardonically, before elaborating on what you already knew but had just momentarily chosen to forget, "I just want my shower."
You know there's a chance that she'll try to escape through the small bathroom window, but you're not worried about that, you have set the sonar fence for any intruders or any escapees. You have to trust her. Naturally you're more anxious that you're going to end up in a headlock with her strength crushing down upon you, but you have to swallow at it and free her from the annoying cuffs. Instinctively you grip the pistol a little harder, your index finger sliding down towards the trigger in unreasonable anticipation.
Cold eyes never stray from your flittering eye line between her and the cuffs, as the key clicks and the rings loosen their bonds around her wrists. You stand up straight again and watch her silently while she rubs at her wrists intentionally at you, no doubt trying to make you feel even more guilty. You don't let her see that though of course, you don't want to give her anymore ammunition for her to be able to use against you.
You quickly learn that she doesn't even need to know anything about you to be able to get at you. Her fist moves faster than you're prepared for. There's a split moment after the impact of her strength where you realise you should have foreseen this coming. This isn't the first time she's tried to attack you, how easily you forget. You don't have time to scold yourself for your lack in remembering the details because between the startling pain that vibrates through your nose and left cheek and the faint trickle of blood that has begun to pour from your nostrils, she's making a brave attempt at prising the gun from your hand.
Swinging your body around to the left you manage to just barely keep a hold of the pistol, as she looses her balance in between the narrow space of the sofa and the coffee table. You still don't learn to move with a hasty pace out of her manic path, because she grabs your right leg, pulling at your jeans until you too loose your balance and land uncomfortably onto the floor, hitting your head harshly against the edge of the small table.
There're too many throbbing pains stabbing at different places on your body for you to concentrate on just one. She's dragging at your hand now, scrappily fighting for the gun that you still possess. You kick her away in her stomach, and she instantly recoils, giving you time to shuffle away from her and find your unsteady feet. You stare at her from your safe distance behind the black pistol that is reflecting the tiny glints of daylight that still manage to filter in despite the torrential downpour. You're panting against your own unbroken fear, and the fragile relief that momentarily pats you on the back for your swift regain in control.
"You just want a shower huh?" you retort back to her sarcastically through your heavy breathing. You steady the gun with both hands, you're scared that you'll shake too much if you only use one hand. She's sucking in air hurriedly on the floor just in front of the sofa, curled inwards around her stomach, her hands massaging gently the exact spot where your foot had slammed violently into her. "I lied," she gasps out, her forehead creases against the blood that is flowing to her head, "just like you lied."
The words feel sharper than her fist had felt. No matter how true they appear to be, they feel ashamedly dirty, vile, and cruelly unfitting for your real good nature. No, you want to scream at her, no, those words are for Ben, Ben's the liar. But it doesn't matter how loudly you screamed them at her, she wouldn't be able to hear you for the static interference that Ben's lodged inside her ears. All his lies are real for her. He's made her believe that you're just as evil as he is.
"I didn't lie," you slip out finally, trying your hardest not to sound too wounded. "Then where's Sawyer?" she snaps back at you through gritted teeth, "you said I was going to see him, you lied." You sniff lightly at the thickness of blood that is tickling your nose, because you know she's right. You did tell her that Sawyer would be here when she woke up. So you are just as bad as Ben? How does it feel to become a graduate from Ben's school of lying?
Lonely, you mutely conclude to yourself. You can feel yourself getting led further into the hall of mirrors, you have no idea how you got there, but you still close your hands tightly around the thin piece of string that you blindly follow in hopes that it will direct you to a way out. Yet it's never ending. The mirrors are still there with every turn that the piece of pale string guides you through. The plainness of the glass taunts at you from afar, distorting yourself into incomprehensible fractions of yourself. You're surrounded by these foreign faces that somehow you realise they resemble your own face, not that you remember what your real self looks like. So many faces, but they don't fill the gaping hole that loneliness has carved into you.
"I want to see Sawyer now," she demands ruthlessly behind her curtain of pain. You readjust your hold around the pistol since you're a little frightened that she isn't taking your threats seriously. "I don't think you're in any position to start demanding things," you inform her forcefully, and you see the mild surprise light up the back of her eyes. She huffs a small pocket of air through her nose, almost bordering on a laugh, before she gathers her weight together and lifts herself up against the legs of the sofa.
She's staring at you still from behind those narrowed eyes, sitting on the floor with her back crashing into the back of the sofa. "You drugged me," she states flatly, "kept me in a cage, watched me break rocks, and now you're holding me at gun point, I think I ought to get at least a phone call for my troubles." You don't take kindly to her sarcasm; it doesn't sound right rolling off her tongue. "I want to see Sawyer," she snarls again a little louder than before.
"That isn't going to happen," you answer simply, and instantly regret the straight forward attitude that you've adopted when you see the glint of disappointment swirl inside her eyes. "You can still have your shower if you still want it," you offer in a lower and slightly softer voice. She looks away from you rolling her eyes as she laughs quietly in sarcasm at the options available, "you have it." You're quite aware that your arms are beginning to ache, and the straight line of your pistol is wobbling from the tenseness that is gripping your arms. Slowly you lower it from her and allow yourself to smile a little at her, "oh that's thoughtful of you Kate, but I've already had mine thanks."
She snaps her head back into your direction, her hauntingly empty eyes have filled up with something that you can't quite read at first, but you feel you've seen it somewhere before. She clearly hasn't understand your poor attempt at trying to lighten the situation, she thinks you're mocking her and she's clearly insulted by the way that she's regarding you with an open stare of chilly hatred.
"Do I need to cuff you again?" you ask her while you still have her undivided attention. She doesn't answer you, instead her eyes fall to the open metal rings that sit abandoned on the floor in the space between us. You understand her silence is the only way that she can keep her pride in tact and that she doesn't want to see those things ever again. She grips the edge of the sofa from behind her and slowly eases herself up onto its gentle material.
"But I would prefer you to shower if you're going to sit on my furniture," you inform her in a flat tone, as if you were addressing a child. You don't mean to be condescending to her, it just sort of falls from your mouth quicker than you can catch it. You don't really know how else to speak to her. You've not mastered the art of speaking to her and getting through to her yet. You're so used to hearing that kind of ruthless patronising from Ben that you simply think it's commonplace and it's almost drilled into your phrasebook that you don't even realise you're doing it.
She's staring at you with a silent interest and you don't know why until it dawns on you that you've probably not hidden your grimace too well from your deeply confusing thoughts. You straighten your back a little more and take a deep breath, before raising your eyebrows coldly at her. She takes the hint finally but not without a little smile pulling at the delicate edges of her mouth. She stands to her feet slowly with her hands resting on her thighs until she finds her balance. Instantly your fingers curl around the weight of the pistol without thinking. She's stepping towards you now with a cocky smile still bending untidily at her mouth.
"Don't worry," she laughs lowly when she sees you flinch for the second time, "I'm too worn out to fight." You want to believe her, but she's fooled you too many times already that you know she can't be trusted. Didn't her file tell you this though? She's a trickster and a user, of course she can't be trusted. You watch her pass you slowly while her eyes are stuck firmly on the gun this time. It unnerves you the way she's studying the details of the pistol, and you can see the want explode from the centre of her eyes in shadows of determination, she wants the gun. You pull the gun closer to your side and you gradually turn your body around to keep your eyes on her as she passes you. She notices because she rips her eyes away from the gun back to glare at you.
She pauses her feet for a moment. There's a small gulf of air that sits thickly between you, but it is close enough for her to reach you if she wanted to. You ready yourself for her attack. You won't be caught looking like the fool again. She leans her head towards you with an intimidating pace, before telling you, "your nose is bleeding." You gently wipe at your nose, rubbing the scarlet stickiness around on your thumb with a mild shock running across your face.
She stalks off down the hallway towards the bathroom. There are already some towels and some fresh clothes waiting that you chose to leave in there for her after you had finished having your own shower. That's if she even chooses to use them. Who knows what she will do when she gets inside the bathroom. Threatening images reveal themselves to you inside your mind's eye that reminds you of her rebellious nature throwing a tantrum at the glass wall. You glance behind you with a sense of worry gripping hard at your shoulders. Maybe you won't even have a bathroom left to speak of, or maybe she won't even be there in another fifteen minutes. You realise of course she'd be stupid to attempt to fit through the small window of the bathroom, but something tells you, maybe a line from her file tells you that she'd be willing to give it a go if it means a step closer towards her freedom. You shake your head at your own foolishness. She can't get far though. The fence would block any of her planned escape routes.
You give a little huff. You're defeated. There isn't much else you can do but trust her and hope that she just has her shower quietly. A fallen disappointment creeps onto your shoulders, replacing the worry that had just lain heavily a moment ago. You're disappointed that you can think this badly of someone so quickly. Was this how you were brought up to think? Your parents would surely be ashamed that you've judged this young woman so hurriedly and on what basis? Information gathered by one of Ben's very loyal followers, a likely place to start basing your assumptions on. What would your sister think? She of all people would frown at you with a clear distaste for sudden judgments.
Rolling your head up to the right, you try to fight back the swollen tears that are threatening to betray your confident, resolute coldness. You know that if she was here she would be reminding you of all those darkened moments in your own life where they could be slammed with condemned judgment of their own. She'd remind you that no one is judging you for what you've done, so why would you let yourself think you are better than Kate to do the same thing to her?
You press your index finger and thumb into your eyes, rubbing at the closed eyelids to rid yourself of the tears. You aren't crying because you're disappointed in yourself though, you're not even crying because you've disappointed your sister, you're crying because you can't remember her voice that is telling you she's disappointed. You can't recall any of the softness in her voice, you can't remember her accent, you don't even remember if she had an accent at all. It pains you that the simple memories of your former life have vanished in a matter of years. You wonder silently to yourself how long it will be before you loose the image of her face, since you have no pictures of her to adorn your walls or your shelves. How long will it be before you can't remember anything about her? It's bitterly cruel how the details of your sister are slowly eroding from the frail tapestry of your memories, yet the day you arrived on the island shall forever remain so ardently vivid in between the threads of your mind. You fall victim to the dread that sets itself firmly into your pores. The dread of not remembering your sister, but still remembering the day you gave your life away.